


Surgery

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [15]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Deaf Character, Gen, Major Character Injury, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	Surgery

Mugs, bottles, and plates clattered to the floor silently. Aramis saw a bottle of wine break against the wall, its contents splattering around the room. It had to be loud. In his left arm, Porthos flinched. That was good. At least he was conscious. It was hard to keep him awake without being able to talk to him.

Aramis dropped his sword and heaved Porthos onto the table. He could see his face contort in a scream, but his agony was silent. Not a bad thing. He had to believe it was easier that way. But was it? He’d have no idea how Porthos reacted when…

_He shouldn’t get ahead of himself._

Porthos was on his side, draped across the table in an awkward diagonal, his feet still dangling on the floor. His chest rose and fall rapidly, his gaping mouth a contrast to the eyes that were squeezed tightly shut. By the lamp light, Aramis could see how grey Porthos looked.

Just the dust. He had to tell himself that.

He unbuckled Porthos’ pauldron. Porthos bit his lip so hard he drew blood. Aramis tried to jostle him as little as possible when he peeled off his doublet. A blast of warm air hit his cheek when he bent down. Porthos was screaming in pain.

Casting the doublet aside, Aramis grabbed at his ears again. He wished there was something he could do, something to dislodge whatever had robbed him of his hearing.

Tears streaked Porthos’ cheeks. Aramis rubbed them away with his thumb, leaving bloody marks in their place. At last, Porthos opened his eyes. He said something or at least his lips moved.

“I can’t hear,” Aramis said or thought he said. He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t even hear himself.

A question on Porthos’ lips, in his eyes before he closed them again, dropping his head onto the table. Aramis would answer it later. If he could. If later existed.

He could do this. Had to. Aramis grabbed Porthos’ feet, his legs. It was good he didn’t have to hear the shouts of pain, the grunts, and worst of all, the whimpers when Porthos was suffering so much he couldn’t control himself. He knew what it sounded like. The memory of it haunted him. He didn’t have to hear it now.

But of course he also didn’t hear other things. Didn’t hear him breathe, didn’t hear him plead. He wouldn’t even hear him choke, wouldn’t—

_None of that now._

He laid Porthos out flat on his front, taking care to turn his head to the side and cushion it on his forearm. Porthos was pliable in his hands, but still not unconscious.

A touch at his arm made Aramis spin around. Hugo, one of the regiment’s stable boys, had brought him a bucket of water. He was talking, but Aramis ignored him. He snatched the bucket from the boy and put it on a chair.

Good. Good. It had worked. _Water, water, water,_ he’d screamed at Hugo, had repeated it as often as he could while he dragged them both into the farmhouse that had been the musketeers’ quarters these past two weeks.

“My room,” he shouted now. “My saddle bags. Get my saddle bags. The ones with the big powder pouch. Get my saddle bags. Last room on the right. Get my saddle bags.”

The boy looked scared, but he nodded and dashed up the stairs. It must have worked; Hugo must have heard something. Good. He wasn’t mute. That was something at least.

He had water. Right. Water was good. He had plenty to do before Hugo returned.

He stared at the bloody mess that was Porthos’ back. His shirt was a ruined red rag. Aramis tore it from hip to neck and let it fall to the side. He wouldn’t move Porthos again just to take it off. Under his fingers, he felt Porthos tense.

How long had it been? Long enough for some of the blood to harden and for the fabric to stick to the skin. He hated hurting Porthos.

He hurried to the front of the table and hunched down to bring their faces close together. He brushed his hands over Porthos’ hair. Bleary eyes blinked open. Aramis smiled.

“There you are,” he said. Or thought he said. He wasn’t sure.

He should knock him out. Porthos wasn’t good with this. He hated needles, hated being worked on, being at somebody else’s mercy. And when pain clouded his mind, he didn’t always hold back the way he usually did. They’d learned the hard way that it was better to knock him out. But Aramis needed his hands to stitch the wound. It would be harder with bruised knuckles.

“Can you lie still?” he asked. Porthos showed no sign of comprehension. “Please be still,” Aramis said, louder. “I know it’ll hurt, but it’ll be worse if you move. It’s just me. Be good for me, love.”

He pressed a kiss to Porthos’ nose.

He couldn’t knock him out. What if Porthos’ tongue fell back and he choked? There was nobody here but the boy. Everyone else must have run towards the town when the fighting began. And he didn’t trust Hugo to alert him in time, to know what to do. He wasn’t Athos.

There was never a good reason to leave Porthos conscious for surgery. Athos had said that after that skirmish in Poitiers. And Athos was right. But Athos was currently missing. Disappeared after that second explosion.

Aramis shook his head. He couldn’t think about Athos now. He had to work with this reality.

He grabbed Porthos’ pauldron from the floor and put it on the table next to his head. Maybe it would do Porthos good to see his beloved fleur-de-lis, but more importantly, the thick leather could serve another purpose. Aramis held out one of the straps in front of Porthos’ face. He brushed a finger along Porthos’ bloody lips.

An almost imperceptible nod and Porthos opened his mouth. Aramis slid the leather between his teeth. He cradled Porthos’ cheek in his hand and took a deep breath. Time to do this.

He dropped his weapons belt, his sash and all his armour, then pulled up his shirt sleeves. He took a handkerchief and dipped it into the bucket of water. 

Handkerchief and water were soon tinted red. Hugo made himself useful, bringing more of both. At some point he had reappeared with the bags, startling Aramis. The boy’s movements occasionally registered in his new silent, solitary world, but mostly he focused on Porthos. Cleaning his back allowed him to feel the steady rise and fall of each breath. It would have been easier to tell with his ears, but from what he could glean from his hands, Porthos wasn’t struggling to breathe, breathing as evenly as could be expected.

Maybe the blade had not reached his lung. Aramis allowed himself that hope.

There were so many other things it could have caught, though.

So much blood on the outside, but how much more within? It wasn’t necessarily the visible wound that was the most dangerous here.

Still. Better to be stabbed in the back than in the chest. He had to remind himself of that.

He grimaced when he reached the actual wound. Usually, cuts were good. Clear, straight edges that could heal easily. Stitch them together, make it nice and neat, and then pray there would be no complications.

This was neither nice nor neat.

When had that devil last sharpened his blade?

It had clearly been sharp enough to cut through leather and skin and flesh, but it wasn’t a good blade. The cut wasn’t clean. There was no straight line as would be expected in a stab wound. Instead, the flesh was torn like a wild animal had gotten its claws into it. The skin was shredded, the edges of the wound ragged.

A notched blade.

_Sangdieu._

Right.

He could deal with a notched blade. A bit more work. More pain for Porthos, regrettably. But it was nothing they hadn’t encountered before.

He motioned for Hugo to bring one of the lamps closer. Why did these things always have to happen at night?

To his credit, the boy moved swiftly and didn’t look spooked. He’d have to thank him one day.

He rinsed the wound, which made Porthos jerk, but a steady hand on his shoulder made him subside. He wished he had Athos there to hold Porthos down through all that was to come. Athos was good at that.

_No, he wasn’t thinking of Athos_.

He picked up the forceps from his medical bag and removed a stray thread of Porthos’ shirt from the wound. And of course that devil hadn’t cleaned his blade either. Dust and dirt and everything bad mingled with Porthos’ blood. He rinsed the wound again. It couldn’t help to leave these things inside. They didn’t belong in Porthos’ body.

He squeezed Porthos’ neck reassuringly. He was sorry to hurt him, but it had to be done. What would give this wound the best chances of healing?

There was a lot of blood, but that was probably due to the depth of the wound. An inch? Two inches? He felt around the area, Porthos’ muscles tense underneath his hands. All solid muscle. It might well have saved his life. Underneath the muscle, the shoulder blade. Had that stopped the sword? It had been wielded with great force, penetrating thick leather with ease. Had bone been enough? Beyond the bone lay the lung, the heart. Unthinkable what could have happened. Not unthinkable, really, but better not to think about.

Sweet heavens, he hoped the tip of the blade hadn’t broken off in the bone. He should have checked, should have had a look at that sword, but of course he hadn’t been thinking. He tried to check now, plunging the forceps into the wound. Porthos reared up. No time to waste. Down. All the way to the bone. He slid his finger along the forceps. He felt nothing but solid bone. He tried to focus. Any sharp edges, anything that shouldn’t be there? No, he didn’t think so.

_By God, let there be nothing there._

He withdrew his instrument and brushed the sweat from his face. The boy looked frightened now. He’d have to chide Porthos for scaring him. Later. When all this was over. Maybe it was a blessing he couldn’t hear. He hated Porthos’ screams. Hated to cause any patient pain, but Porthos more than most. Athos was easier in that regard. He rarely made a sound. Which wasn’t always good either. He’d be perfectly still, then suddenly go even paler and pass out without warning.

_No thinking of Athos, not now._

He rinsed the wound again and washed away the fresh blood. Cleaned it up as much as he could. He’d had surgeons laugh at him for being so pernickety. It would bleed again, why worry about cleaning it up? It might well be silly, but it made him feel like he was taking better care of his patients that way. Keep them clean, keep them comfortable. Cleanliness made such a difference, his mother had always said. You don’t need to be rich to be clean. A clean kitchen, a clean bed, clean hands at the table. It felt courteous to keep his patients clean as well. Porthos most of all. Porthos really was pernickety.

He’d feel much better once he was clean and all this was bandaged in nice fresh linen. Aramis would make sure of that.

He washed his own hands, staring at the wound in Porthos’ back. He knew he was stalling because he wasn’t sure what to do, but it couldn’t do any harm to get the blood off his fingers. At the very least, his hands wold be less slippery for what was to come.

He knew what he had to do, really. Just wasn’t sure how to go about it. Usually, he would have talked. To himself if need be. He could have pointed out that beautiful little scar from Poitiers. Such intricate stitching. He was proud of that. The talking kept the patient occupied, but more importantly it silenced Aramis’ own thoughts. In the wordless isolation of his deafness, his thoughts were loud.

Could he do this?

What if Porthos lashed out at him? Hugo would be little help against Porthos when he wasn’t holding back.

What if the pain got too much and Porthos passed out? Merciful oblivion, but also the danger of him never waking up.

What if there was some internal injury? What if he had missed it? What if a blood vessel had been opened? What if the bleeding wouldn’t stop? What if it was even worse? The lungs, the intestine… There were so many dangers.

No. He couldn’t think like that.

Deep breath.

He could do this. Whatever he did, he wouldn’t make it worse. It wasn’t him who had injured Porthos. Although of course if Porthos hadn’t had to shove him aside—

No.

Staring at the ugly gash in Porthos’ skin made him doubt immediately that he wouldn’t make it worse. Should he leave it like that? It seemed counter-intuitive to make the wound bigger. Porthos had already lost so much blood. It wasn’t good, losing blood, no matter what the barber surgeons said. Aramis wasn’t the only field medic who had seen people bleed to death.

A thin ribbon of skin was already shrivelling up, attached only at one end. Might as well cut it off now. And all the ragged bits with it. Nice, neat edges. It might make it easier for the body to knit itself back together. He wanted to make it easy for Porthos’ body.

Right.

He pushed up his sleeves to above the elbow and picked up the small, very sharp blade he kept in his satchel. If that Huguenot had taken anywhere near as much care with his sword, he wouldn’t have to do this now.

First cut.

Aramis felt Porthos’ pain.

He shook his head. He didn’t literally feel his pain. He was fine. He was being melodramatic. Athos always said so.

_He wasn’t thinking about Athos._

He had to keep going. The faster he did this, the faster it would be over. The faster he got this wound cleaned up, the faster he could bandage it and let Porthos rest. Rest and recovery. That’s what they both needed. The faster he did this, the better.

He had to keep cutting. Had to not think about how it was Porthos’ skin he was cutting into. He was bent low over Porthos’ back, trying to be as precise as he could. Nice, neat edges. He could do that. For Porthos.

Fresh, clean cloths appeared by his side. He gave Hugo a quick nod, then grabbed one and dabbed at the blood. Sometimes he had to make patients bleed. It was unavoidable. But the bleeding was never the point of his treatments. A side effect, not the cure. He wasn’t one of those fanatics who bled people dry. He was one of the good guys, at least in this. Not as a musketeer, not necessarily, but always as a medic. Only God could heal, of course, but Aramis knew he was God’s tool in this. A good, sharp tool. Maybe he shouldn’t take so much pride in that.

At some point, Porthos passed out. His tense muscles relaxed and he seemed to melt into the table. Aramis sighed. Relief. At least he lay still now. His body had been rippling with pain, with screams and groans Aramis couldn’t hear. Of course this was painful, but it would help in the end.

At least he hoped it would.

It had to.

Had to.

He felt for Porthos’ pulse to reassure himself. Still there, still steady. All was as well as could be expected. He just had to keep going. With Porthos on his front, his tongue really shouldn’t fall back. But maybe… He turned Porthos’ face so his mouth lay lower. Would that be enough? What if… He shouldn’t stop to think. It never led to anything good.

Nice, neat edges. He had to focus on that. He looked down on his work. Easier to think of it as his work, not Porthos’ wound. It was as clean as he could make it. He pushed the edges together, made sure they aligned perfectly. Healing should be easier like that. Still up to God, of course. He had to trust the only one who could heal in this world. But he had given it his very best.

Should he stitch the wound?

He scratched his chin, probably smearing blood everywhere.

Sutures or not?

He’d usually talk this through. With himself, obviously. It wasn’t like the answer was going to come from anywhere else. They all deferred to him in medical matters by now. He had a bit of a reputation. A well-earned one. Nobody in the regiment argued with him on medical topics, just like nobody played Porthos at cards. But it helped to say things out loud. Or it had before he had become deaf as a white dog.

He threaded a needle. He liked sutures. Another way to make sure he left no mess behind. Close it up, pretend it’s perfect.

Then he stopped. Shook his head. He had to stop pretending that this could be anywhere close to perfect. It was a deep, dangerous would straight through the muscle and into the bone. Even barring all other complications, he had to assume that there would be infection. This wound had been open for how long now? He had no way of knowing for sure, but it had to have been a while. Their way from the battle back to their quarters had been slow and laborious.

Was there any point in stitching the wound now? Or would he simply have to reopen it the next day to drain the pus?

“I don’t know,” he said. Hugo’s head shot up so he had to have said it out loud. He gave the boy what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

He put the needle back down. He would pray for a miracle. He would pray for Porthos’ body to knit itself back together, for the wound to heal without a trace. If God granted him that miracle, his fancy needlework would be unnecessary. But if, as was probably likely, Porthos’ stab wound wasn’t very high up on the list of divine priorities that day, they’d have to deal with infection. And checking for that would be much easier without stitches.

He grimaced. It wasn’t very nice to leave Porthos with a big hole in his back. It didn’t look like a job well done at all. And maybe he shouldn’t be so focused on what things looked like, but he knew Porthos focused on that. Porthos liked things to look nice.

He had to stop. He would bandage it nicely. There. That would have to do.

He washed his hands again in a desperate effort to keep the bandages clean. Not merely for aesthetics. It would also make it easier to see if the wound bled profusely. There would be some bleeding, of course, especially once they had to move him. While he had been working, other musketeers had slowly started to drift back into the house. There’d be others in need of the table.

He’d have to see to them. He’d have to leave Porthos alone to do so. It was his duty, of course. Of course it was. He knew that. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

He slipped two fingers underneath the white linen strips, making sure they weren’t too tight. He wanted them tight to make sure the wound was stuck together, but it would be no good if Porthos couldn’t breathe properly. He removed the remains of the blood-stained shirt from Porthos’ body while he was at it and cleaned his arms as well. Make him look as neat and tidy as possible. He wiped his face as well, removing blood and dust.

Poor Porthos, he was still out cold. Maybe it would help him heal, help his body focus on nothing but that. Aramis prayed it would do some could. He would need all the strength he could muster if infection did set in. There was no telling, of course. Sometimes wounds festered and killed, other times they healed without complications.

He gathered the instruments he had used, the forceps, the little knife. He’d boil them later. An old midwife had told him that. Maybe it was superstition. Maybe just common curtesy to not splatter the blood of another man onto each new patient. He took great pride in his satchel of medical supplies, so keeping them clean made sense to him. It looked much more impressive if he unpacked clean instruments.

Aramis looked around himself. The scene had changed from when he had first dragged them into the room. Now men moved everywhere, small clusters of musketeers sitting around the edges of this room and more in the one beyond. He hadn’t noticed that so many had returned. There were some injuries, but from what he could see, none seemed major. The men were taking care of each other, dabbing at small cuts, winding bandages around arms. He was their medic, but they could all take care of themselves.

His own shirt was drenched in sweat and blood alike and at his feet lay a pile of dirty cloths. It had to look to them like he had butchered Porthos. He could smell the blood in the air, but mostly there was the acrid burn of smoke. The men had carried the stench of the explosions back with them.

A touch on his shoulder make him spin around, hand automatically flying to his hip where his sword should have been. Unnecessary, of course, as nobody else in the room seemed alarmed, but it was unsettling to be surprised.

Athos.

Aramis’ knees buckled and he had to catch himself on the table. Athos had come back.

He looked like the devil himself, his hair ruffled and covered in dust and debris, his face smeared with soot. But he was alive. He had come back to them. He was— no, he wasn’t unharmed. At a second glance, Aramis noticed the blood. Blood on his gloves, his face, and glistening all over his uniform.

Not another one.

He’d have to have Porthos moved. Put Athos on the table. He would— Oh God, don’t let it be too serious.

He took Athos’ face in both hands. He couldn’t see any obvious injuries, apart from a few light scratches. Good. Athos looked steadily at him. His pupils were fine, not too wide, not uneven. Good. Aramis let his fingers trail into Athos’ hair, followed his hairline to the nape of his neck on both sides, then back up again. Nothing.

Athos was moving his lips, but everything was still silent to Aramis. He ran his hands down Athos’ neck, feeling his spine. Everything fine there as well. He unwound Athos’ scarf, then opened a button. He had to find his injuries. Athos was a bad one for hiding wounds. Aramis would have to search for them. 

Athos caught Aramis’ hand in his and tipped his head up with a thumb to his chin. He gave Aramis a rare smile and then he was talking again.

Aramis shook his head. “I can’t hear.”

Athos frowned, but then nodded.

Right. He had heard.

Athos lifted his eyebrows so dramatically that Aramis didn’t need to hear the words to know it was a question.

“The explosion,” he said.

Athos nodded again.

Aramis used his momentary distraction to continue opening his doublet. He had to find out where the blood came from. Had to stop it. Had to make Athos better.

Athos caught his wrist again. This time he slipped it beneath the leather and pressed it flat to his shirt right over his heart. Aramis could feel Athos’ pulse thrum beneath his fingers.

Athos said something. Moving his mouth slowly. He kept talking. Eventually, Aramis realised that he was repeating the same thing again and again. He focussed on the movement of Athos’ mouth and tongue. It took several times, but then…

“I am fine?” he asked.

Athos nodded.

“But…” Aramis pointed at his soiled uniform. “Blood…”

Athos shook his head.

“Not mine.”

Aramis surged forward, embracing Athos fiercely.

Blood and grime be damned. They were together. Athos was back. He would take care of Porthos. He would make sure Aramis didn’t miss any signs of distress.

A huge weight lifted from Aramis’ shoulders. He felt a bit dizzy with it and clutched Athos more tightly.

Athos huffed a soft laugh into his neck and shifted so he could perch on the edge of the table. His right hand rubbed slowly up and down Aramis’ back. Aramis breathed deeply. Athos smelled of blood and smoke and leather. Maybe not the most appealing combination, but Aramis didn’t care.

Athos was back and he’d make everything better.

He felt Athos talk, but his attention didn’t seem to be required, so Aramis let himself be held without disruption. Maybe Athos was reporting to Tréville, telling him how the battle had gone. Aramis should care. He should want to know what had happened to Privas and how the royal army had fared. But for now, the two people that mattered most were right here with him.

Eventually, Athos nudged him in the side. Somebody had brought a quill, an inkwell, and paper.

_How is Porthos?_ Athos wrote.

Aramis grabbed the quill from him. Speaking was too odd when he could never be sure that he had been heard.

_Stab wound, shoulder blade, two inches deep, lost lots of blood._

Athos nodded, his face serious, and reached for the quill.

Before he could write another message, Aramis scribbled _Check his breathing. Is he breathing right?_

Athos crouched down next to Porthos’ face, brushed a hand over his hair, and listened intently for a little while. Aramis watched his face. As usual, Athos remained impassive, unreadable. But when he got back up, the smallest smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

_He’s snoring softly. He’s asleep._

Aramis let his head fall back and grinned. Asleep. Of course. Porthos would fall asleep anywhere, even on a table surrounded by half the regiment. Of course he would. It was so typical.

He grabbed Porthos’ wrist and felt for the pulse. Steady. It reminded him of that very first time they had met all those years ago. He’d stitched Porthos’ wound then. His pulse had been strong then as well, despite the blood loss. Not that it had mattered back then. Not nearly as much. Sure, he had been thankful to the unknown infantryman and impressed by his determination and bravery, but he hadn’t known how important Porthos was. Now he knew and it made seeing him like this much more difficult.

To his credit, Athos didn’t ask if Porthos would recover. Aramis was thankful for that. People always asked him that, like he was more than just the medic. He could try his best, but ultimately those weren’t his decisions to make.

_Listen to him,_ Aramis wrote. _Have to be careful. Tell me if anything changes._

Athos nodded and patted him on the back.

_We’ve got this._

Of course they did. Athos did. Aramis didn’t have to worry about Tréville or anyone else. Athos took care of all that. Athos had Hugo clean up and then bring them a big bowl of warm water so they could wash without leaving Porthos’ side. He even went upstairs and got them both fresh clothes and a big blanket to wrap Porthos in. Blood loss might make even Porthos cold. And that way, he didn’t have everyone staring at his bandages.

Nobody else was seriously hurt, so they left Porthos on the table. With Athos to watch him, Aramis could let his own attention wander. Athos would know what to do. Porthos was safe with him. At first, Aramis tended to the small scratches and cuts Athos had gathered in the fight. Then he moved around the room and did the same for all the other men. There were no losses in their regiment that night. Everyone had returned. Everyone was well. Some had burns, but none of them were big or particularly severe. Aramis washed wounds, removed splinters and dirt, and applied liberal amounts of salve. He had stocked up over the winter, knowing he would need his supplies sooner or later.

A few men had been thrown over by the explosions and already felt the developing bruises. Aramis also noticed that Athos was not putting weight on his right foot. He didn’t complain. Of course not, he never did. He definitely wouldn’t with Porthos so unwell. But he couldn’t deny that he was limping either.

_The second explosion. I went over on my foot. Sprained it._

Aramis snarled and snatched the quill from him.

_I’ll be the judge of that._

He directed Athos to sit on the table next to Porthos. For once he could genuinely be deaf to all of Athos’ complaints and his lies about being oh so perfectly fine. He wasn’t. That became obvious when Aramis tried to take off his boot. He wriggled and twisted, but the boot wouldn’t budge.

Swollen. And Athos had tried to not even mention it. Idiot. 

Aramis pulled out his sharp little knife again. Easier to cut the boot.

Athos pulled his foot away.

Aramis growled at him.

“We can’t leave it on until the swelling goes down,” he said. Athos had told him to lower his voice and he hoped he got it right.

Athos grimaced and shook his head, so it must have been loud enough for him to hear. Idiot. Like he didn’t have the money to get himself another pair of boots. Oh, right, of course… they were still pretending he wasn’t some sort of nobleman.

Aramis would have liked to yank the boot off, pain be damned, but as much as Athos deserved that, he couldn’t really do that until he knew that he had indeed not broken any bones. He wouldn’t go pulling a broken foot all over the place. Misalign those bones and he might as well get the big knives out and start amputating.

He said a quick prayer for patience.

Back to wriggling and twisting.

Slowly, very slowly, he got the boot off.

Not without some flinching from Athos. Good. He deserved that pain for not saying something earlier. They could have gotten that boot off when he first came in. Might have been easier.

Well. His own damn fault.

Finally, the boot came off. The sock followed. And there they were. A big fat swollen ankle. Huge surprise.

Aramis looked at it. Swollen, yes, but not misshapen. Nothing that looked off. Not that that meant anything. It could still be a break. But at least there wasn’t a bone sticking out. With Athos, that wasn’t exactly outside the realm of possibilities. 

Aramis poked at it.

“Numb?” He ran his finger along the length of Athos foot. The way Athos’ toes curled suggested he was at the very least still ticklish there.

Athos shook his head.

Good. Again, no guarantee, but numbness would have suggested a break.

Aramis moved the ankle gently, then poked at it, watching Athos’ face closely. He might as well have watched a brick wall for all the information that yielded.

“You have to tell me where it hurts,” he said.

Athos waved a vague hand at his foot.

Aramis rolled his eyes. Truly, very helpful.

He started to poke at Athos’ foot again, slowly making his way from toe to heel and up towards his shin. Athos cooperated, but he was lucky Aramis had the eyes of a sniper. Anyone else might have missed the slight frowns he used to indicate where it hurt.

All soft parts. None of it bone.

He had to trust Athos to be honest with him.

He did trust Athos to be honest with him.

Yes.

“Sprained,” he said.

Athos made to hop off the table, but Aramis stopped him with a hand to his chest and a glare. He made Bisset get up and put his chair next to Porthos’ head, then helped Athos sit down. Hugo brought a bucket of cold water. Good boy. Aramis would have to thank him properly. Riding lessons or target practice, or whatever the boy liked.

After Aramis had made his rounds around the other musketeers, Athos made him sit down as well. Aramis justified it with holding Athos’ now very cold foot on his lap. A bit of elevation would surely help. Unfortunately, that meant they were both in reach of quill and paper again.

_What about your ears?_

Aramis shrugged.

_You can’t hear at all?_

Aramis shook his head. Well. Now that he had sat down and could actually try to hear himself think, he realised he could hear something, a persistent buzzing noise, like a heavy rainstorm that drowned out all other sound. He tried to clear his ears, but there was nothing to clear even though they felt like he was diving.

_What’s your prognosis?_

Aramis made sure Porthos’ shoulders were covered by the blanket, then peeked underneath to check for bleeding. There wasn’t any, as far as he could see. He’d have to check properly. He would, once Porthos woke up. He put his hand on Porthos’ forehead but couldn’t detect any fever. Not yet. His pulse was still strong and steady. Aramis would give him a tea when he woke. What herbs would be best? Something to help him sleep. Something to help him heal. Strengthen his body, as well. He probably wouldn’t take any food tonight, but tomorrow…

Athos pointed at the new words he had scribbled.

_What’s your prognosis? For your ears._

That they wouldn’t fall off any time soon. He could say that much for sure. That they would actually look quite fetching with an earring or two. Debatable, but it was a debate he’d be willing to have. Would they ever function again?

Aramis shrugged.

He had no idea.


End file.
